Chapter 46
MATARYS TARGARYEN
The entire world believed that dragons were dead. The last dragon alive in their minds was the weak, stunted, and misshapen beast that had died during the reign of King Aegon III in the year 153 AC. It had managed to lay a clutch of five eggs, yet none of them had ever hatched.
To most minds, that was the end of the dragons, and perhaps there were dragons alive in other parts of the world, but in the Seven Kingdoms, the dragons were believed to be extinct.
But that was not quite true. At the end of the tragedy of the Dance, one dragon had managed to survive the war. A she dragon said to have been driven mad by the grief and tragedy of the war.
The dragon of the Good Queen herself. Silverwing.
By the texts of Barth, she was a docile beast, one who was always seen accompanying the Bronze beast that was Vermithor, much like their riders who spent their entire lives together.
After the Good Queen's death, she was claimed by Ulf during the war, and the brute dreamt of becoming King because of that power until he met his own demise through poisoned wine. Yet the war had driven her mad, and the dragon had flown away from Kingslanding and made its way to this place.
Red Lake. When King Aegon the Third had made his progression, his hand had done his best to steer the journey away from this place, for he knew well how the young King loathed the dragons.
But as the years passed, the legend of the Good Queen's dragon was lost to the whispers until Aemon found the texts and wrote to him about the place. By then, Matarys had given up, for he could think of no other way of bringing back the dragons.
But Aemon's letter had given him hope, and that was why he was here in this part of the Reach while his entire family fought for their survival. The Red Lake—the last abode of Silverwing.
They used a raft to travel to the island in the center of the lake. The castle at the edge of the lake belonged to House Crane, and until now, they had pledged loyalty to neither side, and Matarys had no intentions of finding out the truth right now.
With the help of a few bribes and incentives, Matarys was able to secure a fishing license for them, and so to the guards, they were nothing but a few fishermen whose raft had gone astray.
They landed on the Island, under the cover of the darkness, and he was thankful for the help of his cousin and Ser Duncan, for he would not have been able to make the journey without them.
"I believe you should stay here," he advised, and Aegon frowned.
"Why?" and his little cousin had grown up quite a bit over the years, though it was getting rather obvious that he would never have his father's height.
"You heard the men in town," Matarys reminded him.
"They all said that the cave was cursed," and Aegon nodded.
"Yes, that was the dragon. Silverwing," he repeated, and while he hoped that that was indeed the case, he would not take the risk.
"Still, I have no intention of putting all your lives in danger," he repeated before he looked down at his own son cradled to his chest. He was sleeping soundly, and Matarys kissed his brows before he removed the makeshift cradle from his neck and passed his son into Ser Duncan's arms.
"If something happens to me," Matarys ordered, as the giant man's eyes widened.
"I want you to protect my son," and then his eyes fell to the babe once more.
"I will protect the Prince until my last breath," Ser Duncan promised him as Matarys took the torch from him, and now he turned towards his little cousin.
"You know that the war is not going well," and, while he did not have the details, he had heard whispers that the pretenders had taken over Dragonstone and proclaimed Haegon as the new King.
Still, the fall of Dragonstone was quite significant. It meant that the enemy had the capital under siege, and so things were not in their favor, at least.
"If I do not come back, I want you to travel to Crakehall and sail to Braavos," and he reached for the little key tied around his neck.
"This is a key to my vault in the Iron Bank," and Aegon seemed surprised by his words.
"You think we will lose the war," Aegon gasped, as his face grew pale.
"I do not know," Matarys answered, and Aegon had expected something else, but this was all that he had to offer him in this moment.
"Over the years, I have invested a considerable sum in a few businesses in Braavos. It is nothing too grand, but the gold in the vault would be enough for one to live comfortably," and that was downplaying it.
He pressed the key into Aegon's hands.
"Do not let our family's burdens weigh you down," and he could only help him with this.
"Live your life in the way you see fit," and he held his shoulder as he pushed himself up. He turned his back on them and began walking towards the entrance of the cave. He stopped to look at his reflection in the water, pooled at its entrance, and he could hardly recognize the man in the water.
He had aged.
His face was dirty, and his beard was unkempt. He could see a hint of grey in his hair. To think that he had fallen so low, and just as he was pitying himself, Aegon roared from behind.
"This can't be it," he roared angrily, and Matarys glanced back and saw his cousin crying, as he glared at his back.
"You can't give up! You can't!" Aegon spoke at him angrily.
"You are better than this!" and there was a plea in his voice, and usually Matarys would reply with certainty, but he had been robbed of that quite some time ago.
"You have to be," and now even he was not sure if he could be.
Yet that did not mean that he was not going to try. He was. He was going to do everything in his power, but he feared that it just might not be enough.
"I can only try to be," he answered, and he could promise him nothing else as he turned and walked into the dark cave that was said to be the abode of the only adult dragon to survive the Dance.
The light vanished soon, and only the torch guided him as he made his way through the intricate and desolate passage of the cavern. He could hear his heart and his breath as he walked through the darkness, and as he raised the torch, he saw them on the wall.
"Claw marks," he whispered to himself as he slowly walked up to the wall and saw that the wall had deep gnarling into it. Deep and old marks that had been left there years ago by a massive beast's rage.
So, he gulped down and began walking down the tunnels once more, until he came upon the layer. It was a large space, with thick walls, and in the center of the room, he spotted them.
"Dragon eggs," he guessed, and there in the center was a clutch of eggs that confirmed it as the layer. He slowly walked up to them, and as he touched them, he felt a faint heat that had been absent in all of the dragon eggs he had touched until now.
Still, this was not what he was looking for. He searched around, yet he saw no sign of the mighty beast he had come to search for. He stumbled slightly and fell to the ground hard.
His face hit the rugged ground, and the torch slipped out of his fingers, offering up some resistance before it went out completely.
"Aghh," he grunted in pain as he slowly pushed himself off of the ground. The fire was gone, and he now had only the embers to help him see. He could feel the blood dripping out of his head, but it was nothing more than a scratch.
He slowly walked up to the extinguished torch and was about to pick it up when suddenly he felt the ground under his feet begin to shift. He tried to steady himself, but the ground kept moving, and he quickly began running until he hit the wall hard and fell to the ground once more.
His eyes were still adjusting to the darkness, so it was his ears that heard it first. He had only ever read about it in texts and tomes, yet even that was enough for him to recognise that guttural sound for what it was.
His heart sank as he slowly pushed himself to his feet, as a giant shadowy figure began to erupt out of the ground while all he could do was watch, as it rose full glory.
Stone, soot, and dust covered its scales, but he could spot the hint of that glistening silver under it in some places, but it was the blue eyes that lit up the place as Silverwing extended its wings.
Silverwing was one of the few dragons that managed to escape the Dance unscathed, and so he could spot no scar as the beast extended its mighty wings and let out a massive blast of fire into the cave.
He was forced to crouch down as the fire passed right above his head, and he wondered for a second if he just might meet his end in this cave. But as he thought about his brother, his father, and his son out there waiting for him, he stilled his heart as he slowly pushed himself back to his feet.
"SILVERWING!" he roared in High Valyrian, and it was well known that dragons were able to make sense of the ancient tongue, and those eyes fell onto him, and for a second he feared the beast might swallow him whole.
"I have not come here in search of glory," he shouted, or better yet, pleaded.
"I know that we of the flesh have no right to ask anything of you, but we have no choice," and the beast lowered its head until he could feel the heat from his mouth. He could see it smelling him, and its teeth were mere inches from his face as he slowly extended his hand.
"Without you, the magics of our enemy will see my son dead. It will see our family ruined, and the legacy of Valyria shall be lost," and it could swallow him down in the blink of an eye, but he did not back down.
"Help us. Help us this once, for you are our only refuge," he begged, as the dragon stared down at him with great intensity. The consensus was that the pains and the grief of the Dance had driven the rather docile dragon mad.
But before the dance, Silverwing was considered to be one of the most docile dragons. She was said to be the kindest of them all, and despite her size, had little desire for war and conflict.
Her last rider, Ulf, was also responsible for much of her rage. The bastard thought of her as nothing more than a mindless mount, but the truth was far more complex for those of House Targaryen, who knew well that there was no greater illusion than the fact that humans controlled the dragons.
They were creatures of magic and power. No human could ever be worthy of wielding such power. Not even himself.
"Please, I implore you. Give us one more chance..."
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